


Mother's Day

by Fuguestate



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Kinkmeme prompt fill, Other, Watchmen Kinkmeme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-05-09
Updated: 2010-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-09 19:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuguestate/pseuds/Fuguestate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Working through some of Walter's issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mother's Day

1.

Cheap perfume, sweat, and cigarettes. The smell makes him feel ill almost immediately. Her open-toed slippers and a nightie are all she wears where she sits in ratty armchair, just as he remembers. Smoke coils toward him from the enveloping shadow and he stifles the urge to shrink from its touch.

"Well?" Flat. Disinterested.

One foot shuffles before he can stop it, and he mentally rages at himself for the lapse.

"Had to see you again."

An exhale of smoke in the dimness. "So. You're seeing me."

"View hasn't improved with time."

Laughter, brittle and sharp. "Still the _loving_ son…"

"As loving as my mother."

"You always were an obnoxious little shit."

"Not according to others, back then. Pity your opinion took precedence."

"_Pity_ \- Oh, you got plenty of that, didn't you."

"Never asked for it. Least of all from your _clients_, though some excelled at it."

"Goddamn hypocrites."

"You were still my first example of that. Suppose I should thank you for the early lesson."

He can feel her glare through the shadows. "So what? You want me to apologize?"

"Never did before. You wouldn't mean it now."

"How do you know?" Her dark shape leans forward. "How do you know we wouldn't have a tearful, touching Mother-and-Son reconciliation?"

"Don't want that from you." The words take him by surprise even as he says them.

"Yeah? Then what do you want?" She rises, bringing the filthy-sweet miasma with her. "You're a big boy now…" Her smile twitches around her cigarette as she sways into his personal space. "Have you decided you want what all the others wanted?"

He reaches out to grip her shoulders, hard, and shoves her to topple back into her chair. "_Never_!" He can't control his breathing so close to her and his voice is Rorschach's rasp. "Should have killed you myself."

"But you didn't always feel this way, did you Walter?"

His throat constricts, and he swallows. "No." He stares down at her. "I was a stupid, _hopeful_ child. Didn't understand that you would never… _love_ me." He takes a step back. "Looked too much like my father."

She lights a new cigarette with the old one. Her hand is almost steady. "Yeah, you did. And you ate, and you made noise, and you took up space, and you _cost_\--" More smoke billows, fast and angry.

"And you didn't want me."

"No." Another puff of smoke. "And now I'm dead."

"Yes."

Silence.

"So." She leans back in a deliberately lewd sprawl. "Do you have what you came for, then?"

He tilts his head, considering for a long moment.

"Yes. I think I do."

He turns and walks away.

 

2.

"Walter. Walter, honey…"

He hears her come in, skirt rustling the way slacks never do, and unfamiliar shoes making a new cadence on the hardwood floors.

"Walter…"

He stirs to let her know it's all right to come in. The mattress sinks down with her weight, tilting him a bit toward her. A tentative hand alights on his shoulder and he quiets his misgivings enough to open his eyes and look up at her for the first time.

He shouldn't have doubted – she is absolutely beautiful. The soft light of the bedroom perfectly complements the floral print on her dress, her face framed perfectly by short, soft dark curls. Her eyes are modestly accented, but the blush in her cheeks is all her own.

"There you are." She smiles and reaches down to stroke his hair. "Did you have a good nap?"

He can't find his voice in the wake of her touch, so he just nods and nearly weeps when she leans down and kisses him on the forehead.

"I made us lunch – are you hungry? Let's get you dressed and go downstairs." She helps him sit up even though he can do it himself, her touch lingering in a wealth of caresses. His shirt is first; she wraps its crisp whiteness around him and he lets her fasten his buttons so he can watch her face as she concentrates on him. Her brow is furrowed just a bit and her fingers are so gentle as they tug and coax everything into place. Trousers are next. She draws them up his legs but lets him tuck in his shirt and fasten them himself. He sits back down on the edge of the bed so his socks can be slid on, and then his shoes. He watches her bend over them, tying perfect bows in the laces and giving them each a pat when she's done.

"There we go." She smiles up at him, then stands and combs his hair into place with her fingers. He shivers a bit in pleasure and he hears her murmur happily. When she's done, she guides him to stand and holds him at arms' length. "My handsome boy," she croons. He is enclosed in gentle arms, brought close to softness and warmth, then released with a light peck on his cheek. "Come on, now, you can help me set the table."

He holds her hand while they descend the stairs into the spotless kitchen, where the sunlight filters through the curtains onto the table. She sets out plates and bowls for them, centered just so on the placemats, and hands him silverware and napkins to put out. He is very, very careful to put everything together just right and is rewarded with a smile and another kiss on the forehead.

There is homemade chicken noodle soup for them, and apple slices, and glasses of milk. He sits for a moment just looking at everything, watching the steam rise from the delicious-smelling food and gazing at the sun glowing through her auburn hair. Tears suddenly spring into his eyes as he looks at her and he tries to swallow the lump in his throat.

"Shh, baby…" She cups his face tenderly in her hand. "It's all right." She leans in to hold him close and they stay that way for a moment.

Releasing him with eyes that are overly bright, she strokes her thumb along his cheek. "Come on, now – eat your lunch like a big boy before it gets cold."

He does his best to remember his manners and eats every bite, savoring it all. Then he carefully helps clear the dishes away. She runs water into the sink to wash them, and he sits back down at the table to watch her, putting his head down onto folded arms. She hums softly as she cleans each item, her skirt swaying gently with her movements. He is lulled by her soft voice, the steady clinking of the dishware, the dust motes floating in sunbeams and the comfort of a full belly.

"There." She turns to him when she's done, putting the dish towel away and coming to take his hand. "What would you like to do now?"

He looks up into her smiling eyes, with his hand held gently in hers, and manages a whisper. "Read me a story?"

"Of course, baby. What would you like?"

He can't decide, too muzzy from lunch and they hypnotic peace surrounding them. "Anything."

The corners of her eyes crinkle at that. "I'm sure we'll find something." They walk hand-in-hand to the shadowed living room where she sits him down on the couch. He piles the throw pillows together and gets settled while she scans the bookshelves. "How about this one, Walter?"

He nods happily at her choice and she returns to settle into the nest of pillows he's made. Pulling him to snuggle close, she tugs a blanket up to cover their laps. She takes a moment for a hug and a brief kiss to the top of his head when he puts an arm around her. "Ready?" He nods against her shoulder. Pages rustle and she begins.

"_It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, to look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to Sherlock Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all that was going on at the police headquarters…_"

  
The story ends and they sit curled together under the blanket. Walter burrows a bit closer, putting his hand over her heart and letting himself drift farther into this comfortable haze. He breathes in a hint of perfume mixed with a myriad of wonderfully familiar things, and lets his eyes drift closed. "I love you, Mommy."

A single, warm drop falls onto his half-curled fingers. "I love you too, baby."

 

\- fin -

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- Written for the Mother's Day prompt at the Watchmen Kinkmeme ( http://spam-monster.livejournal.com/3498.html?thread=10671018#t10671018 )


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